


wanna make you mine now

by irreputablyyours



Category: Music RPF, Oasis (Band)
Genre: M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irreputablyyours/pseuds/irreputablyyours
Summary: You know it’s wrong, but hell if that means you’re gonna stop.(Or: Up In The Sky songfic)
Relationships: Liam Gallagher/Noel Gallagher
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	wanna make you mine now

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so these bastards have absolutely taken over my life in the last few weeks, and I blame it all on the amazingly talented people in this fandom. Y'all are fantastic, I hope you guys don't mind my humble contribution to this gloriously trash ship. Also this is my first time writing RPF, please don't hurt me I'm sorry.
> 
> The chorus to Up In The Sky really bothers me, because it just... doesn't fit at all with the rest of the song? I always thought it was a byproduct of either Noel being high as a fucking kite when he wrote it, or just him randomly inserting lines about gay sex into a completely unrelated song. Far be it from me to understand what the actual reasoning behind the song is, but this fic is my spin on that. 
> 
> Also, is it cliché to name an Oasis fic after an Oasis song? Hell yeah. Does that mean I'm gonna stop doing it? [Absolutely not](https://genius.com/Oasis-slide-away-lyrics).

_November 1993_

The whole thing starts when you’re off-your-mind drunk, three shots of whiskey deep into song writing. The world’s dizzyingly clear and absolute chaos at the same time, and you’ve got a guitar in your hand, an acoustic Epiphone that refuses to play clearly no matter how much you try to fix it.

Your whole desk is a mess, the type of disaster you avoid like the plague when you’re sober. Song lyrics are scratched out on everything from cream-coloured letter paper (Louise’s, not yours) to the fucking dirty napkins that’ve got stains from you slamming beer glasses on them.

You’re onto some song, high with that feeling you get whenever you know there’s words in you but you can’t quite spit them out. Drunken ramblings in your scrawl litter the desk, things like _you gotta dream a little bigger, like a ship in_ or _tell ~~him~~ her what you want to say _or _up in the sky/ flying so high._

Most of the song is written; three quarters of it’s down, good enough to record or at least play. A petty, sneering sort of song about people who think they’re better than everyone else – you like it. Two solid verses and a nearly finished bridge, but the fucking chorus is driving you nuts and it doesn’t matter how much you stare at the paper, the words just don’t come. You try them out, over and over:

 _I’ll teach you a lesson –_ too vindictive.

 _You want to learn something new, we’ll show you –_ can’t fit the rhyming scheme.

 _Fucking hell –_ you throw your pen at the ground at glare at it, as though it’ll solve your problems. Most of the time, songs are easy – the lyrics may make no sense, but you’ve got this feeling inside you, the one that tells you, _yeah, that’s right._ Like you know exactly what to do and say. It’s the most exhilarating high of your life, that type of control. Almost as good as – no.

Fuck no. You’re not thinking about that. It’s been more than five fucking months since that happened, and you’ve gotten good at putting it in a box along with other things you don’t like to talk about. (There aren’t many, you can talk shit until your teeth fall out, but among them are topics like your dad, Clint, and, well, _this._ )

Five fucking months you’ve managed to somehow avoid thinking about Liam, or at least avoid thinking about him the way you – fuck, the way you want to. It’s been five months, you tell yourself over and over, but in this moment you can feel yourself slipping up. You’re with Louise, you tell yourself, and you’re not even bringing home other girls while she’s out. You’ve fucking – you’ve fucking got it made, there’s no need to be thinking about.

Fuck. You’re thinking about it. Not in words – the thought is revolting, the words are disgusting - but flashes of images, like a broken VCR playing the same bits over and over again.

Liam, fifteen years old and looking up at you from behind his lashes, biting his lip and saying, _wanna be my date,_ teasing but not quite. (There’s something off about him. Something off about the two of you, really, you’d thought it even back then.) You’d rolled your eyes, quipped something about no girls wanting him anyways, but you hadn’t said _no_ and you’d felt his gaze following you as he left the room.

The first time he kissed you, a year later when you were half-asleep, just a faint ghost of his lips over yours. You’d looked up and he’d been grinning, nervous like he was unsure if you were about to deck him or fuck him, like he wouldn’t be surprised at the former but the latter sounded a helluva lot more appealing. You’d pretended not to notice, closed your eyes and turned over, although you hadn’t been able to sleep the night.

Fast-forwards and you know he saw through your bluff, because one day you were fucking around with the chords to Rock ‘N’ Roll Star, piecing together the solo and trying to figure out whether you should throw in an E7 somewhere, and he just sat down next to you. You knew by the look in his eyes – you can read him like a book, the way other people read the Bible. He’d clasped his hand around your wrist and drawn your fingers from the fretboard, letting your fingers curl on his palm. He’d taken your hand – slowly, maybe because he thought you’d say no but probably because he’s a little fucker like that. And then he’d taken your fingers to his lips, run his tongue over the callouses on the tips over your fingers, and taken your index finger in his mouth. His eyes had been wide and his lips looked redder than normal, and you’d gone very, very still, trying vainly to keep your heart from beating straight out of your chest.

“Liam,” you’d said, and he’d looked at you like he was daring you. You’d remembered that suddenly, _we have the same eyes,_ and something in you broke, compelled you to draw your hand back and frame his lips with a kiss, taste the cigarette smoke and booze on his tongue. You’d kissed him in a way that’d been so far from chaste it wasn’t even a point on the horizon, you’d kissed him like your life depended on it, you’d kissed him like he wasn’t your brother.

Of course it’d snowballed from there, because Liam is Liam and you’re you and neither of you ever do anything by halves, hell if you were going to start now. You think of how he’d looked when he’d dropped to his knees, the way his hand had fumbled around your belt, the way he’d said _please._ You think of how it had felt like when you write songs, but better, because it wasn’t something as insignificant as the English language that you had control of – no, it was your snot-nosed pain-in-the-arse brother. It was _Liam,_ who ruined your fucking life with every breath he took, who made you want to smash things and topple empires and take over the world all in one swoop.

He’d bit your neck when he came. You touch the spot above your collarbone.

You’d wanted to do it again. You’d told yourself, _just one more time,_ but the entire time the band was recording the demo, you just couldn’t stop. It’d been a nightmare.

Fuck. Your hand fumbles from the pen, and you grab the nearest piece of paper, scrawl out the chorus trying not to think how fast you’re heart’s beating.

 _How does it feel/when you’re inside me,_ you write, not even looking at the pen as you scrawl out the words. You’re thinking about how Liam looks at you when you’ve got him pinned down. You’re thinking of the way he sings, how he’ll bat his eyelashes and lick his lips when he thinks you’re watching, how his gaze will always slide to you when he’s singing and that’s where about ninety percent of your screw-ups in the studio come from.

You’re thinking – well, you’re not really thinking, as you’ll recall in the morning – but in that moment, you think you’re thinking that it’s the best way you can tell him: _I see where you’re going._

(It’s the easiest way you can tell him: _you’re mine._ )

* * *

_January 1994_

You don’t expect him to say yes. You don’t expect the lyrics to get past your first revisions – they really shouldn’t have, don’t make any damn sense in the context of the song and no one’ll sing them aloud – but they do, partially because you’re a stubborn cunt and partially because you’re curious. You expect Liam to draw the line, to say, _just because you fucked me doesn’t mean you own me, you fucking cunt,_ roll his eyes and toss it to the scrap board, or tell you to sing it yourself, if you like it so damned much.

Liam, though, he just looks at the lyrics, raises his gaze to you, and says, “Alright.” There’s nothing in his voice that suggests he’s got even the slightest knowledge of what he’s saying. You think, momentarily, that he actually is as fucking stupid as you’ve always claimed, but then he looks at you again and you see it – that glimmer in his eyes, the smirk at the edges of his lips. _You’re on,_ he’s telling you. Or maybe _you’re right._ Your heart’s in your fucking throat over that one, there.

Before he leaves you in the studio, he walks up behind you and presses a kiss to the bare skin near your neck. You look at him, and he _winks,_ the fucker. You could swear fucking Tony’s somewhere around the corner but you don’t know, and part of you just doesn’t fucking care. You hate how Liam has the ability to completely and utterly wreck your capacity for rational thought.

/

The recording is a fucking fiasco. Your eyes keep sliding over to Liam, and you’ll lose your tempo when you’re watching him. He always takes it up a notch when you’re watching: leaning into the mic more, fluttering his eyelashes, playing it up a bit. Usually, you can live with that. You like it when he begs for your attention, even if you’d rather die than admit it. You figure he already knows. (Maybe that’s why he does it.)

Now, though, it’s fucking impossible for you to keep your eyes off of him. You screw up on the chords a minimum of three times, and you can tell Tony or Bonehead are considering reaming you out. Bonehead starts, “What’s up with you, mate?” he’s looking at you with mild concern – it’s not like you to fuck up like this.

Liam rolls his eyes, smirk on his lips. “Maybe he’s thinkin’ about his bird or summat.”

Oh. So that’s what it’s going to be like. You look away from Bonehead, staring straight at Liam.

“Yeah. Maybe that’s what it is.”

Liam’s eyes go just the slightest bit wider, surprise he tamps down quickly with a small smirk. “Try not to get too carried away, then. And stop fucking up on the riffs,” he says, tugging at his shirt so that it rides up and shows a pale strip of skin. You fumble for words, trying not to stare.

“I’m sorry, who here writes the fucking songs?” It’s a rote argument, one you can recite even when you’re coked up to the eyeballs, and that’s why you choose it - you’re not sure you can manage complex thought right now. You’re heart’s beating far too fast and you feel flushed all over, and you keep running your thumb over ring finger, touching the claddagh ring there, the one that matches his.

“And who here fucking sings them?”

Normally, you’d ream him out and it’d probably end up with the two of you going at it, with words if not fists. Today, though, you’re too busy trying to keep yourself from dragging him into the nearest corner and having your fucking way with him, so you just give him the two-finger salute and roll your eyes.

“Just sing the fucking song, you dumb twat.”

“’S not me who’s fucking it up all the time, now is it? I’m just doing me job.” He’s fucking with you, you know, he’s not actually mad – there’s a hint of a smile at the edge of his lips, and he keeps peeking his tongue out in a way that might be playful if there wasn’t such an obvious dare in his eyes.

You can’t stop staring at him. His cheeks are tinted red, and thank god it’s not gone beyond that – last fucking thing either of you need is to be getting hard while he’s looking at you like _that,_ people see what they want to see, but any idiot can add two plus two and get four.

“You know what I mean,” you say dismissively, and his shoulders drop and the light in his eyes fades a bit. Good. He’s been fucking up the damned recording for you, he _should_ be feeling like shite.

(You don’t contemplate the idea that it’s your fault. It probably all is, but he – he fucking _knows_ what he does to you, and he’s a complete and utter cunt about it. Admittedly, you’re not much better, you spent most of last April trying to see how far you could push him, how much he would throw aside his dignity and beg for you, let you push him to his knees or tie him up or leave a pearl necklace on his throat and bruises on his thighs. But- nevermind, you tell yourself. Play the fucking guitar, and play it right.)

You play the whole thing through and the entire time you refuse to look at Liam. You refuse to think how he might look when he saying those filthy damned lines you scribbled out all those months ago, refuse to think of how the song would sound in front of a crowd, whether he’d play it up, kiss your neck or wrap a hand possessively around your waist after he’s sung the lyric you wrote about fucking him, how god-knows how many people would sing along and none of them would _know._

You finish the recording – fucking _finally._ You nearly drop your guitar and storm out of the room, not bothering to give any explanation, because really, what is there to say? _I wrote a dirty song for my little brother to sing and he’s driving me fucking mad because he does it perfectly?_ That’ll go down well.

/

Liam follows you, because of course he does.

“The fuck was that?” he says, catching up to the bathroom where you’ve stopped to wash your face and avoid looking in the mirror.

“You know exactly what that fucking was.”

“You wrote a song, I sang it. What’s new?”

You turn to him. “You know.”

He takes a step closer. “I do.” You hate and love how he’s the only one who can understand what you’re saying better than you yourself. “So why’re you running away?”

You’ve got a million answers for that, starting with _we’re brothers_ and ending with _we can’t even get along,_ but they all die in your throat.

“’m not running,” you say.

Liam scoffs. “Then what are you doing? Sprinting slowly? Fuckin’ driving?” Liam’s never been good with metaphors.

He pauses, looking back up at you. “You wrote that song – hell, you wrote those _songs,_ Noel, and they were about me. Some of ‘em, at least.” He’s leaning closer now, far too close to be casual. “You put the words to paper, don’t blame me for singing ‘em.”

You pause. Some days, you think the two of you are telepathic. Some days you can swear you can _hear_ his thoughts ringing around in your mind as if they’d been yours forever.

Today’s not one of those days.

It’s not – you _are_ ashamed, you think, although some part of you wonders how much you’re even capable of that anymore. You hadn’t felt ashamed when he kissed you. You hadn’t even felt ashamed when he’d gasped out, _fuck, Noel, don’t stop,_ into your neck as you thrusted into him, hadn’t felt ashamed when you’d looked into his eyes and they’d been the exact same shade of blue as yours. 

(You’re only ashamed when there’s other people watching, you think. If only you could just leave this planet, slide away so that it was just you and him forever. You’d write songs with his name in them and sing them to the stars and you’d never feel an ounce of shame.)

But that hadn’t been it.

“You fucking idiot,” you say, and you kiss him, open-mouthed, tugging at his shirt and pulling him to you. You pull back for a brief second, swallowing and trying to think.

“Can’t stand how good it is,” you mumble into his skin. He doesn’t ask for an explanation, and you don’t give one. _Can’t stand how good it is to see you like that. To know that you’re_ mine, _that you’ll sing to crowds about me fucking you and play it up like that._ You can’t tell him. You _can’t._ You don’t know how to give him that. Don’t know how to tell him how you want to bite him until he bruises, kiss him until his lips are bleeding, carve your name over his heart. You can’t tell him, and you can’t tell anyone. Maybe that’s why you write the songs.

“Fuckin’- drive me crazy,” you whisper hours later, when the two of you are in your room and he’s just falling asleep. He drives you crazy period, and then he drives you crazy with how much you want him.

“Love you too,” he says, sounding sleepy and barely conscious, eyelashes fluttering. Your heart stops in your chest, but slowly you find yourself smiling.

(You wake up the next morning with him by your side, and you’ll get lyrics in your head again. _In the morning, we’ll be so confused._ It’s not quite right, but one day you’ll get a guitar and you’ll fix it, and he’ll sing it, and he’ll know. _Yeah, I could write songs about you. I could write entire albums._ )

**Author's Note:**

> [Live Demonstration](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Live_Demonstration) was recorded from March-May in 1993. Noel [was living](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noel_Gallagher#Personal_life) with Louise until June 1994. [Rock 'N' Roll Star](http://www.oasis-recordinginfo.co.uk/?page_id=544) as well as Up In The Sky were written before most of the other songs on Definitely Maybe. Other than this, I am definitively playing fast and loose with canon don't mind me. 
> 
> I hope you guys liked! Feedback is love.


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